


too tempting not to touch

by finkpishnets



Series: various storms and saints [2]
Category: Frey & McGray Series - Oscar de Muriel
Genre: First Time, Frottage, Kissing, M/M, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-25
Updated: 2018-12-25
Packaged: 2019-09-26 17:08:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17145704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/finkpishnets/pseuds/finkpishnets
Summary: They get back to Great King Street, and Ian promptly remembers to panic.





	too tempting not to touch

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DoreyG](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DoreyG/gifts).



> Hi again, dear recipient!
> 
> So, I wrote your main story, and then I apparently thought "well, what better way to spend Christmas Eve whilst hosting a houseful of guests celebrating a day early than writing a sexy-times sequel?" 
> 
> There's definitely more of these codas in me, but a) I hoped you enjoyed the main story enough to like this, and b) it has literally been years since I've written anything over an R rating, and wow that shows. 
> 
> Happy Yuletide again, and I hope your day's wonderful, whatever it involves. ♥︎

**~**

 

 

The journey back to Edinburgh is one of casual touches and long looks, flirtatious promises that leave Ian unbalanced and overheated. The relief of being spirit free tips him over the edge into joyful, and McGray keeps shooting him amused glances, entertained by Ian’s unusual behaviour.

Then they get back to Great King Street, and Ian promptly remembers to panic.

One second Layton’s issuing commands to Larry for the unloading of the carriage whilst Ian and McGray talk about when to head into the office, and the next Ian’s locking himself in his study because the back of McGray’s hand slid over his as they reached for the same trunk.

Poltergeists aside, it’s possible he really _is_ losing his mind.

He has a few long moments to catch his breath, eyes squeezed closed, before there’s a knock at the door.

“Ye breathin’ in there?” McGray asks through the wood, and Ian sighs.

“Barely,” he says, and can practically hear McGray rolling his eyes.

“I’m gonna head into work,” he says, “give youse some time to calm down.”

“I am _perfectly_ calm,” Ian lies, and McGray snorts.

“‘Course ye are.”

It would be so easy for Ian to slip back into old habits. The very air feels normal, so far removed from the previous few months, and Ian could cling to that, throw back sharp insults and cold detachment like they’ve not spilt secret after secret between them and come out brand new.

He _could_ , but he refuses to be a coward.

“Thank you,” he says instead. “But— Dinner?”

There’s a brief pause. “Aye,” McGray says, and his voice is softer. “I’ll see ye later.”

“Later,” Ian echoes, and goes back to putting his head between his knees.

 

 

**~**

 

 

Truthfully, there’s plenty to be done.

Not all his correspondences were forwarded to Gloucestershire, he has reports to write, and the house needs to be put to order. 

Instead he sits at his desk and stares into space. There’s just so much to _process_ ; grief’s still settled like a rock in his ribcage, heavy and unmoving, and he can’t even begin to rationalise how it felt to be out of control of his own body. He’s had belief forced upon him, and it’s ridiculous that that’s what he’s angriest about, but the entire situation’s been nonsensical from the start.

Then there’s McGray.

Just the thought makes Ian’s cheeks flush and his heart race, and the juxtaposition is jarring to say the least. He can’t believe how quickly he’s just _accepted_ this, how quickly he’s allowed his desires to have control over all logical reason, and _yet_ —

It’s terrifying, how easy it is. 

He’s wanted McGray from the beginning in one way or another. His respect, his attention, his time. Now he has all that and so much _more_ , and it should be _too_ much but Ian feels greedy with it, like he could take and take and never be satisfied.

He _wants_ , pure and unadulterated, in a way he’s never known.

There’s still a part of him that wants to lock the door and throw away the key.

By the time he’s feeling more himself, the clock’s chiming six o’clock and he has to rush to change. Layton’s set out casual dinner clothes on the bed and filled the wash basin, and Ian moves through the routine without paying attention, his thoughts a thousand miles away.

He hears the door chime and heads downstairs, catching the tail end of Layton greeting McGray and taking his coat like they hadn’t seen each other mere hours ago. Like Layton doesn’t have more than enough information to put two and two together and get four.

Still, plausible deniability.

“Good evening,” Ian says, and then pauses on the bottom step as he takes in McGray’s smart wool suit and soft curls. He’s freshly shaved, and there’s colour high on his cheekbones that spreads to the tips of his ears the longer Ian stands there. “I—”

“Dunnae say anythin’,” McGray says, cutting him off with a huff, and Ian realises he’s _embarrassed_. He’s dressed up in clothes Ian’s never seen, clothes that would look completely appropriate at any society event, and he’s done it for _Ian_.

 _Want, want, want_ , his heart beats.

Layton directs them to the library for dinner, and Ian lets his hand brush the arm of McGray’s suit as they go to be seated, just the lightest touch against expensive wool, and has to curl his fingers into his palm to stop himself doing anything more. McGray appears equally distracted; Ian’s mouth goes dry when he realises McGray can’t stop looking at his lips, and the catch of McGray’s breath when Ian darts his tongue out to wet them is holy.

“Feeling better?” McGray asks, after the last plate’s been cleared and they’ve retired to the fire with their whisky. He’s leaning forward in his armchair, his glass balanced in one large palm, and the firelight leaves him bathed in golden shadows.

He’s beautiful.

“Yes,” Ian says, and knows his voice is too low, too obvious. “Much.”

McGray’s mouth quirks up, and Ian copies him, finishing his whisky and letting his tongue chase the last drops from his lips just to watch McGray’s eyes burn again.

“I should be goin’ soon,” McGray says, though he’s still watching Ian’s lips, and Ian knows a question when he hears one. He also knows an exit strategy, and McGray’s still giving him one, should he need it.

It makes it all the easier when Ian says, “Stay?”

McGray releases a deep breath, and Ian realises he’s _nervous_. Ian’s _sure_ he’s been obvious about this; _he’s_ the one who kept climbing into McGray’s bed at the Plantard Estate, and, yes, _okay_ , so the first time was out of exhaustion and fear and the second was the result of poltergeist possession, but _still_. He feels he’s been rather forward, all things considered.

Apparently McGray’s still not convinced, though, and Ian’s panic attack earlier probably hadn’t helped.

Putting aside his glass, Ian gets up and steps purposefully closer until he’s standing between McGray’s parted legs. He reaches out and curls a hesitant hand around the curve of McGray’s jaw, sliding his fingers up into the hair at his temple. McGray leans into it, eyes fluttering closed, and clasps Ian’s hand under his own.

“Stay?” Ian asks again, and feels McGray’s exhale against the skin of his wrist.

“Aye,” McGray says, barely a whisper, and Ian’s whole body shivers with anticipation.

 

 

**~**

 

 

Once they reach Ian’s bedroom, his earlier awkwardness threatens to return, tripping over his own feet in the doorway with only McGray’s steadying grip on his waist keeping him upright.

“I’ve got ye,” he says against the shell of Ian’s ear, and Ian’s body turns aflame.

“Please,” he says, and he’s not sure what he’s asking, just knows he wants it, wants anything, wants _everything_.

McGray hums in agreement, and then large, calm hands are sliding Ian’s jacket from his shoulders, moving on to his tie, and Ian stays still and lets McGray undress him, piece by piece. It’s so _intimate_ , and Ian’s overwhelmed with it, McGray’s hot gaze a constant as it slides over his body, taking in every inch as he reveals it. Ian knows he should be participating, but when he tries McGray just hushes him and gently undoes Ian’s belt.

It’s possible Ian’s going to turn to ash before the night’s over.

“What do ye want?” McGray asks, as if Ian knows, as if he’s capable of coherent thought.

“Anything,” he says honestly, and feels McGray’s smile against his naked collarbone. 

“Anythin’?” McGray repeats, and Ian shudders. 

“ _Please_ ,” he says again, impatient, and McGray huffs a laugh but doesn’t tease, pressing open mouthed kisses along his throat, clever fingers making an easy job of Ian’s trouser fastenings.

Ian’s not a virgin by any means; the affairs he had during his university days were as educational as the classes themselves, and later, in London, there had been one or two lovely, ambivalent women who wanted nothing more from him than occasional company.

Then came Eugenia, and the proper courting rituals. They’d stolen kisses when they could, but nothing else would have been appropriate, and Ian had no trouble waiting for the respectable married life he’d always envisioned. 

McGray’s mouth slides lower, his teeth catching Ian’s nipple, and the sound Ian makes is one he didn’t know himself capable of. 

Nothing about this is appropriate or respectable, and it’s certainly not ambivalent.

McGray tugs at Ian’s trousers until they fall past his knees, and then McGray follows and Ian can barely breathe. 

“ _God_ ,” he chokes. He doesn’t know what to do with his hands; his nails are digging crescents into his palms, and when McGray’s breath slides across his thigh he can’t stop himself reaching out and tangling his fingers in McGray’s hair, tugging automatically. He tries to apologise, but McGray moans, leaning into the touch, and the arousal that shoots through him is overwhelming. 

McGray looks up through long eyelashes, pupils blown, and Ian may not be a virgin but nothing he’s ever done could prepare him for _this_. He’s used to McGray’s intensity — his rage, his passion, his contempt — and he’s always admired it even as it’s driven him crazy. It’s still driving him crazy, but in a different way entirely. 

McGray slides his tongue along the crease between thigh and groin, and Ian’s knees give way. Hands tighten around his hips, keeping him grounded, and then McGray’s taking him in his mouth and Ian’s mind is whiting out. 

Even in the brief fantasies Ian’s allowed himself in the days since they started this… _thing_ between them, this has never been one of them. There’s been hazy concepts of bodies pressed close, of sweat and heat and pleasure, but nothing as concrete as this. There _couldn’t_ have been; no part of Ian could ever have imagined Nine-Nails McGray on his knees for him, looking content to be there, driving him to the heights of pleasure with his tongue. 

It’s all too real.

“I can’t—” he says, and isn’t sure exactly what he means. McGray seems to, though, pulling back and giving Ian that soft look that he’s still unused to and is starting to crave all the time. He wants to protest when McGray gets to his feet, but it also gives him time to regain his composure, just a little.

The distance feels too great, though, and he reaches out to close it, suddenly intensely aware that McGray’s still dressed in that fine wool suit, looking every inch the well-to-do Scottish socialite. It’s incredible and flattering and wrong, and Ian doesn’t try to be careful as pushes the jacket off of McGray’s shoulders, letting it fall in a heap on the floor.

McGray smiles and starts on his tie, and Ian wants to slow down, to take McGray apart with his eyes the way he’d done to him, but he’s too worked up, dancing on the edge and desperate to see what happens next.

McGray really _is_ beautiful. Beneath his clothes he’s made of tight muscle and fine hair, and Ian wants him so very much.

How could he go so long _without_ this?

He’s so focused on the strip of coarse, dark hair leading southwards from McGray’s naval that he doesn’t predict McGray’s intent before it happens, and the next thing he knows he’s falling backwards onto the bed.

He blinks up at McGray’s amused face. “Hello.”

“Hello,” McGray says, the corners of his mouth twitching. He lowers his body over Ian’s, and Ian’s breath punches out of him at the steady increase in weight. This _is_ something he’s thought of; ever since he’d awoken in the guest room of the Plantard Estate with McGray’s arm pinning him down, he’s wondered how it would feel to be in this position.

Every part of him is melting into the mattress, his arms wrapping around McGray’s shoulders to pull him closer still, his leg tucking behind McGray’s knee and, _God_ , that’s McGray’s cock sliding alongside his own. His breathing consists of little more than shallow pants, and McGray bows his head to drop careless kisses across the slope of Ian’s cheek, chasing the flush that burns its way south. 

“ _Please_ ,” Ian says, dignity long abandoned. “McGray. Nine-Nails. _Adolphus_.” 

McGray groans into his temple, his body arching closer, and there, _there_ , the friction of movement as his hips roll. 

“God,” McGray says, and he sounds as wrecked as Ian feels. “ _Percy_.”

“Keep going,” Ian begs, and McGray tugs at Ian’s arm until he lowers it, sliding his hand along until their fingers are tangled together amongst the bedsheets. Ian practically sobs at the intimacy of it, and McGray catches the sound between his lips, kissing Ian so deeply he forgets to breath.

Ian didn’t know sex could feel like this.

 _He didn’t know_.

He catches McGray’s lower lip between his teeth, nipping down hard enough to break the skin, and McGray growls, rolling his hips sharply as Ian arches beneath him. 

He wants to stay like this always. Forget work and society and responsibility, this is where he’s meant to be, trapped beneath the steady warmth of Adolphus McGray, balancing on the precipice of pleasure and chasing past mockeries from McGray’s tongue.

He hooks his other ankle behind McGray’s leg, pressing into his thighs and shifting the angle until the pressure against their cocks is constant, tangling his free hand in McGray’s hair and tugging not too gently, the way he’d seemed to like before. 

“Aye,” McGray pants, forehead against Ian’s. “D’youse ken how crazy ye drive me? The things I want to do to ye?”

“You can,” Ian says, desperate and honest. “Any of them. All of them.”

Even outside of his short-lived medical education, Ian’s read enough to know the sorts of things men can get up to in bed together.

He wants _everything_. Wants McGray’s strong fingers and clever tongue, and to memorise the paths of McGray’s body with his own. Wants to know what McGray’s cock feels like in his hand, his mouth, his body, and wants to let McGray finish what he’d started earlier.

Wants to know how it would feel to be pressed against their office wall or over his desk, where anyone could walk in, as McGray takes him apart.

“ _Percy_ ,” McGray says again, deep and soft, and it sends Ian tumbling over the edge, heels digging into McGray’s thighs and eyes rolling back as he spills between them on a broken cry.

The world’s narrowed down to light and heat and pleasure, pouring over him in waves, and he faintly hears McGray’s curse, the pressure of his hips increasing, and then McGray’s kissing him hard and tensing beneath his hands.

Ian’s lips feel kiss-slick and bruised when they finally part, the world distant and hazy. The friction’s swiftly becoming painful, and McGray carefully levers them apart, rolling over onto his back beside Ian and swallowing deep breaths. They’re both covered in sweat and semen and the faint beginnings of bruises, and part of Ian’s disgusted at the mess, but mostly he’s just tired and content and mildly overwhelmed.

“Ye alright?” McGray asks on a yawn, eyes closed and chest slowly stopping its rapid rise and fall.

“Hmm,” Ian hums, attempting to keep his own eyes open and failing. He wants to say _Yes_ , to say _More than all right_ , to find the words to describe the warmth settled in his ribcage and have them be enough, but he can’t. McGray knows, though, Ian’s sure of it, and if he doesn’t then Ian will just have to show him later.

He’s never been one to believe actions speak louder than words, but then most of his philosophies have been going up in smoke lately. 

He temporarily changes his mind when McGray kicks him until he gets up and finds a washcloth, claiming guest privileges, and Ian makes sure to clean himself first so it’s cold when he tosses it McGray’s way.

McGray watches him as he comes back and tugs the sheets free, climbing between them gratefully, looking uncertain for the first time since they entered Ian’s bedroom.

“Stay?” Ian asks again, hoping the third time will finally sink in and leave McGray in no doubt as to his wishes. 

“Budge over then,” McGray says around a smirk, doubt falling away, and Ian rolls his eyes and does as he’s told.

“Goodnight, Adolphus,” he says carefully, testingly, once McGray’s curled around him, warm and safe.

McGray presses a kiss to his shoulder, and Ian pretends not to feel the smile in it. “Night, Percy.”

Ian’s knows there’s a lot more to process, a lot more to panic about, let alone the insanity that’s bound to be waiting for them around the next corner.

Tonight, though, he’s warm and content and safe, and for the first time in a long time he lets himself be happy enough just to sleep.

 


End file.
